The Bottineau pioneer. (Bottineau, N.D.) 1885-1895, 1887-12-01
She Can EyerlastIngIy Kick.

GCVLU Sue SAtSuSO ASibuA9s
This is the story OF a little girl.
Her name is Sara. She is a modest,
unassuming, slender, blond.haired.
blue.eyed little thing, the daughter OF
a country curate in England, q prim,
ascetic gentleman of hlgh-church ten
denotes. Her father had O. big family,
and when Sara was very little she
thought she would like to 60 to Lon.
don and carr her own living. She
went to London, and pretty soon
her father heard that Sara had gone
play acting. The good man was hor.
rified, and after vainIy trying to wean
her back to the paths ofrectitude and
the position of a nursery govern
ess at f1O a year solemnly excommu:
nicated her. By and by he heard that
Sara was earning ESQ a week as a
high kicker in the Royal Alhamora in
London. His heart yearned for his
erring daughter, and Sara was once
more reconciled with her family.
All this happened many years ago
mot very many, but just as many as
Sara would like to have told in cold
print-and SINCE then Sara has earn
ed her bread by the height OF her
kick. Sara Is the highest female kick
or on earth, and she doesn't oare who
knows it. She kicked herself $3.50 a
week for ten years. She can kick two
feet higher than her head. She can
kick q hole in the top of the scenery
on any stage IN town. She kicked a
staid assembly Of German matrons
at the Criterion matinee recently
into temporary delirium. Those
pious people in Boston said she kick
ed so high that she kicked a hole in
the Ten Commandments every time,
and when Sara saw that in the papers
she at once kicked for a higher salary.
But it wasn't true, for Sara is a mod
est kicker. She is not a suggestive
kicker, she is q gymnast. She is as
modest q little girl as ever stood on
her head or cancanned herself for the
amusement of bald-headed band Of
spectators. she is an aspiring artistic.
In the practice OF the art she has
reached heights hitherto u%naccoun5-
able. She is an exponent of high art
art q foot higher than anybody
else's. :.
There was a dance by the corps de
ballet, then q preliminary blare OF
trumpets, a moments silence,
and-Sara. 1t was a rush and
a flash and a vision of black legs and
black gauze and diamonds. She
bounds in like a FREELY and whirls
around the stage like autumn leaves
in a cyclone. Her feet shoot around
in circles, her arms and head and
body spin in wild delirium. You
would think-if you had time to
think-that she was going to kick her.
self into fragments and spatter the
show with the remains. Presently
her little slippered foot ascends with
lightning. like velocity and strikes a
point q long way above her flying
hair, then whirls around and gyrates
about her shoulders and comes down
again, then up aud around as before.
She is apparently made of rubber and
whale-bone; her kicking is as the revo-
lutions of q fy-wheel or a buz-saw
with d full head of steam on; she
throws her feet around her neck and
kicks herself in the back of the head
she is weird, fantastic, diabol;cal.
She is an acrobatic imp of darkness.
Her dancing is a sudden tempest,
an outburst OF reckless passion. a gid.
dying fash. And most delightful
withal, It Is not what chestnut ven
ders call the poetry of motion; it is
hardly even graceful. A cycloneis not
graceful. Sara is a terpsicnorean cy.
clone. And the peculiar thing OF it is
that the strictest moralist might
watch her performance and never
turn q hair.